


Miseria

by bonebo



Series: Though Still In Chains (I Sang for the Sky) [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the first time this has happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miseria

A heavy silence is broken by the sound of metal clattering to the floor. 

Tucked away behind bars in a tiny corner of a dark room with a high ceiling, a bot sits quietly. His helm is dropped to his shattered cockpit and hiding the chain that binds his neckseal to the floor, and his mangled claws are bound in front of him by thick stasis cuffs, magnetized and crackling with voltage. The metal of his wrists—what he calls wrists, the band of metal between claw and rotor—is cracked, scorched, blackened; the pain of the constant electricity barely registers anymore, so badly are the nuerosensors there shocked out and numbed.

It only took two days—forty-eight hours.

He had counted each one as it passed.

But that had been quite some time ago; the memory of counting down to his deconstruction is buried back in his processor under hundreds just as bad and worse, back with faded recollections of resistance, of willpower, of fighting...

Back when he still had hope.

Clanging metal footsteps announce the appearance of two bots before the bars. 

“Still functioning?” one calls, and his voice is so familiar that it makes Whirl's shattered cockpit glass ache all over again; there's a pause before the other mech continues the jibe. “Did you miss us, Fingers?”

Whirl raises his helm slowly, but it's out of habit more than anything—his optic was wrenched out long ago, the cavity left behind nothing but exposed wire and tubes, blind and vulnerable. He tries to direct his sightless gaze to where he thinks the mechs are standing, showing them that he will not rise to their bait, and he's rewarded by mocking laughter to his left. “Over here, idiot!”

Strained vents shudder out a sigh, and Whirl drops his helm again, too tired to play their games. He hasn't refueled in what feels like years; his HUD tells him of critically-low levels, and he believes it.

Not that it matters.

Because then there's a quiet pop, the sound of thin metal foil being peeled away; it's a sound that his audials know and he snaps his helm back up, focused on the noise of the energon cube being opened. 

“Aw, lookit that, Slipshift.” The mech chuckles cruelly. “He must be hungry.”

Slipshift laughs, and Whirl's frame stiffens as he hears the cell door being opened. “Then let's not deny our poor little charge for any longer, Flashframe.”

Whirl hears them come closer, feels the prickling burn of their EM fields, charged with sadistic joy and bitterness—then there's a splash, and he can feel liquid by what remains of his feet, and his noise of choked surprise is enough to draw more laughter. 

“There.” Slipshift sounds smug. “Drink up, glitch.”

Whirl hesitates, some shred of his dignity warring with the rest of his starving frame—and in the end, it's a battle he already knew was lost. He's on the floor before he knows it, helm pressed into the puddle and straining to suck up any energon he can through the slit that serves as his mouth. It's hard work, and the laughter of his guards makes his armor crawl, but when the first taste of fuel hits him he can't bring himself to care.

He's dimly aware that the guards stay for some time; his chrono was disabled so he has no idea just how long, but it's not until he's drank a good portion of the energon that he feels a servo on his helm, pushing him to the floor and holding him in place. 

“Y'know, glitch, I was thinking,” Flashframe starts, his voice low and rumbling, “that maybe it was time you showed us some appreciation for all that we do for you. What do you say?”

Whirl stays frozen, his tanks churning; his vocalizer was disabled long ago. He tries to squirm away from the hold, and jerks at the servo that comes to rest over his bare valve.

This is not the first time this has happened. 

Not the first time that he's been held down by one guard while another slams into him, not the first time he's been torn apart on the inside, not the first time he's had to be still and endure yet another humiliation forced upon him. Flashframe is quick to finish and he's grateful, even as he slumps down in the mess of energon and filth on the floor, his sensornet lit up with pain.

“See ya later, there, Fingers,” the guard quips, laughing as they both leave, and Whirl barely has time to recognize the two insults in the one statement before he's offline.


End file.
